Welcome, dear readers, to another month of taking metta off the meditation cushion and out into everyday life.

Last month found me ready to take my next steps after a couple of months walking barefoot along Spain’s Costa Blanca absorbing water’s wisdom in Metta’s Refill. This month, the Dharma redirected me toward working for a walking holiday company’s smallest property in what some consider England’s wettest village.

After two months of barely understanding anyone due to my minimal Spanish, it was a bittersweet culture-shock to arrive back in the UK and be able to eavesdrop on my surroundings again.

As I boarded the bus to the village where I would start my first paying job after more than three years of volunteering, I had to chuckle when I read a poster that said the local community had organized its own bus service, due to the remoteness of the area. All the drivers were, in fact, volunteers!

My first day was on what is known in hospitality as a changeover day, when guests check out in the morning and rooms are readied for check-in later that afternoon. A coworker in her 70s showed me the basic housekeeping routine and it initially gladdened my heart to see her seeming loyalty to the workplace.

As the days progressed, settling into my new staff accommodation and learning the basic food service and bartending routines, I met various members of the live-in and local team. Some fell over themselves to welcome me after being short-staffed for quite some time, while others gave me the stink eye.

Luckily, my two housemates were on Team Welcome from the start. One excitedly collected me from the bus stop to show me around on arrival, while the other asked me, the first time we found ourselves alone, whether I was a meditator as I reminded him of nuns he had met in India. They both marveled at how quiet I was to live with—especially important when working split shifts—and I shared some funny stories about volunteering in Vipassana centers over the years, which were anything but peaceful or silent behind the scenes.

There were a lot of first impressions and much new information to take in during that first week, so I initially took it all at face value while I found my feet.

However, I did start to notice that I struggled to find certain items during housekeeping, often sensed conversations changing in my presence, instructions contradicting one another depending on whom I asked, and sometimes being physically blocked by other waitresses when serving guests.

I gave everyone and everything the benefit of the doubt at first, including myself. Maybe I had misremembered where items were kept in a historic property not designed for hotel-level linen storage? Maybe I was still digesting the witch-hunt I had experienced earlier in the year as described in Metta’s Mirror? Maybe being so short-staffed, everyone had simply found their own way of doing things? Maybe I needed to leave my previous hospitality experience at the door and relax the more formal style of food service I was used to?

But by week two, my sense of unease grew stronger. Interestingly, it was the hundreds of horse-drawn caravans rumbling through the village en route to the world’s largest annual gypsy gathering a few villages over that helped me connect the inner dots. Some watched them pass in wonder and curiosity, while others cursed and accused them of all sorts of things.

Sitting down one morning with two local coworkers after the breakfast service, I was point-blank asked how long my seasonal contract was for and when I planned to transfer to another property. Stunned by their sudden aggression when they had been all smiles with guests minutes earlier, I silently blessed them as it dawned on me just how unwelcome I was among the local staff, who perhaps saw me as stealing their jobs?

As I could have a private word for more context, I asked my manager about this and was assured that my arrival hadn’t stolen anyone’s job or hours. While I could tell they believed they were giving me an honest answer, I could also tell that was not what the local staff believed.

Pretty soon, I was either being given the silent treatment or taken to one side by various coworkers, who offered support, or told me that so-and-so was like that with everyone, or declaring sides, or encouraging me not to let “them” win, or wondering whether the locals were perhaps threatened by how much better I was at the job—despite no one actually showing me how—or confiding much uglier past happenings than I was experiencing or the foreign workers expressing surprise at a white woman who spoke fluent English was experiencing discrimination too.

What I couldn’t pinpoint was what the actual sides were: locals versus strangers? Men versus women? Kitchen versus front of house? British versus foreigners? Teenage versus middle age? Newcomers versus old hands? None of it made sense and everyone seemed anything but peaceful given our picturesque surroundings.

I secretly had to laugh that they must really be bored out of their minds if I was considered this interesting. And whenever I chatted to anyone in the village, it secretly broke my heart to read between the lines that nearly everyone had worked where I was employed at some point and had left because of bullying. Clearly, I wasn’t taking any local’s job. None of them wanted to work there anymore, except the queens of the castle—the ones who had outcompeted everyone else over the years.

Dear readers, I must admit that while I didn’t take the shenanigans personally, my insides did crumple that in less than six months I had gone from witch hunt to bitch hunt! Understanding what people were saying wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and for someone who tries on principle to speak to people rather than about them, every shift was leaving an increasingly bitter taste in my mouth.

Possibly the funniest instance of realizing just how unwelcome I was came during a subsequent changeover day. It’s normally a good moment to test the fire alarm so as not to disturb guests. When the alarm sounded, I carried on making beds as usual. After a few minutes, I went to hunt for more linens and received a surprise earful from a local fireman at reception. Apparently, it wasn’t a drill and no one on the team had thought to tell him I was still in the building.

As I sat with my desire to pack my suitcase and board the next bus, I weighed the pros and cons for which my arrival had inexplicably become a lightning rod.

The pros were: all that rainfall made for a stunning landscape and walking; the guests were lovely; the food was delicious; I had a steady income for the first time in years; the work itself was simple and enjoyable; my housemates—both fathers of teenage daughters—were as determined as me to keep our home a temple; my own meditation practice felt stronger than ever; and our manager not only believed me but was determined to hang onto me.

The cons were: every shift at work and every interaction in the village felt like an unseen obstacle course; every mistake I made was relished for days like I’d committed an actual crime; I often needed several showers a day after feeling so “slimed” in the spirit of Ghostbusters; and I frankly had nothing to prove or gain by staying.

In my innocent intention to help strengthen a team, my presence was somehow dividing it. Was my role here to expose the bullies or would my departure do a better job of that than staying? Was this another lesson in standing my ground or in walking away in the face of toxic behavior? Or had I simply boarded the wrong bus and would I perhaps be more welcome at a bigger property within the company?

I then remembered long ago overhearing girls at school making fun of what I was wearing, knowing full well I could hear them, and of going home in tears that no boy had asked me to dance at the latest birthday party. My father wisely comforted me by saying that none of that was actually about me and the only way to tackle gossip was not to engage in it myself. Or, in the words of George Bernard Shaw: Never wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it.

And so while I waited for clarity on the next steps I should take, I went to work determined not to add to the gossip myself or divide the team further. I generally kept busy with any job at hand, purposefully skipped group breaks as best I could, paid compliments and extended cautious kindness whenever possible, kept conversations factual, stayed helpful and friendly however I could, given that most local staff had stopped speaking to me, and silently blessed the entire baffling mess.

One of my housemates then reluctantly spilled the tea: the female local staff were trash-talking me in the kitchen while I was in the dining room serving guests. The gossips were welcome to say whatever they liked about me, but not to poison the kitchen where the chefs were trying to prepare food to feed us all. And a few evenings later, one woman actually stood outside my bedroom window gossiping about work with someone on her phone.

Those were both steps too far, which, paradoxically, shed light on what next steps I should take.

At my six-week review, I reported all the happenings to my manager as objectively as possible. While I understood her desire to hang onto me both practically and to not let “them” win, this was not my hill to die upon and she had more important things to do than play kindergarten teacher. The queens were welcome to their castle and to lie in the beds they’d made for themselves, this dirty rascal would rather change over.

She kindly offered to rework the rota so that I could work with allies as often as possible, and with her blessing I applied for possible transfers to bigger properties and teams. Maybe I would have better luck being a small fish in a bigger pond?

And so, dear readers, whatever gossip may be poisoning your personal ponds these days, please remember to refresh the waters with metta and know none of it is personal.

Good gossip exists too, as do good girl groups like The Go-Go’s and their excellent self-metta advice woven into the lyrics of “Our Lips Are Sealed:”

Can you hear them?
They talk about us
Telling lies
Well, that’s no surprise

Can you see them?
See right through them
They have no shield
No secrets to reveal

Doesn’t matter what they say
In the jealous games people play
Hey, hey, hey
Our lips are sealed

Hush, my darling
Don’t you cry
Quiet angel
Forget their lies

There’s a weapon
That we must use
In our defense
Silence

See more

How to Stop Gossip – Jefferson Fisher (YouTube)
Three Keys to Shut Down the Silent Treatment – Jefferson Fisher (YouTube)

Related features from BDG

The Dharma of Engaging with the World
“Us Versus Them:” Buddhist Perspectives on Navigating Disagreement and Division
Dipa Ma: The Daughters of the Buddha Are Fearless
When This Happens, That Happens
Metta’s Peace of Cake
How to handle slander and gossip

More from Living Metta by Mettamorphsis